The Prose of Saint Greyhound

Here's where my prose are

A Midwestern Summer

There's something about a Midwestern summer that calls to me, beckoning the pit of my soul, the core of my being. The green trees and tall grass rustle and shake and weave together melodies in the wind that call familiar to me. The rain falls heavy, fat droplets flailing against foliage, forming pockets of mud in the earth. The sun shines down, smiling slyly upon us and blessing our bodies with a kiss and a blush, leaving behind sweet cherry skin. And I chat with the fireflies, interpreting their glowing morse code into messages sent from nature itself, basking in their light and chasing after them with outstretched hands. And the air is sweet with humidity, sliding along my cheeks as I labor amongst the weeds, sweet with the scent of corn, towering high along the roads, sweet with laughter and yelps of children playing in the shallow creek. Something about a summer spent in the Midwest plucks at the strings that hold me together, causing me to dance in the heady aura of the season, boiling my blood and filling my lungs with saccharine nostalgia.